Fall from Grace
by TheMidnightOwl
Summary: The angels are falling, and Cas can only watch. SPOILERS FOR SEASON 8 FINALE. One-shot, will continue if people like it.


_"The angels are falling."_

Castiel remembered the blinding light that exploded from the chapel the day Sam Winchester freed Lucifer from Hell. His raw power and energy, that corrupt force locked up for thousands of years finally stretching its wings, literally and figuratively. It was beautiful. But it was terrifying. The chilling rage and loneliness contained in that single beacon of light, signaling his long-feared return to their world. It vowed to destroy everything. And yet it still called out to them, the angels, for their love, for he was still their brother.

This was much worse than any would-be apocalypse. This was more terrifying and painful than the sight of the Devil being freed. All of Heaven's remaining angels, the ones spared from his neurotic slaughter of the Host, were falling to Earth. _And if they fall, as Lucifer fell, they fall in flames. _The words came to the forefront of his mind now, presented right in front of him. Like comets in the sky, their wings aflame in the atmosphere as they plummeted to the ground, Grace exploding as it was finally torn from them. He wanted to drop to his knees. He wanted to run and try and catch them. He wanted to fly to Heaven and murder Metatron. But he couldn't. His Grace was gone, too, leaving him vulnerable and human. All he could do was watch.

The shower of angels continued to drag on as he trudged through the forest, mocking his most recent failure. He had landed not far from the church Sam and Dean chose to cure Crowley. At least, he considered it not far; nowhere had ever been too far for an angel. But now, without his wings, he was forced to walk. He hoped he would catch them before they left.

Could he run the entire way? Running was quicker. Sam and Dean never seemed to have an issue with running. His pace broke into a sprint when he reached a road. His sense of direction did not seem impaired. He could visualize the location of the church in relative distance from where he was now. Would cutting through the woods be quacking than running the curves of the road? He did not know yet how intact his sense of direction really was.

Running was painful. How did the Winchesters keep this up for so long? His chest and throat burned, his mouth dry and his legs straining each time his feet met the resistance of the road. His body wanted to slow down, but he ignored the urge. The Winchesters seemed to ignore a lot of things; maybe they just ignored this, too. Exhaustion was the name for this feeling. He had never felt it before, but it was unpleasant. He kept his pace as well as he could.

Dean held Sam's head up so he could see. The sky was illuminated by hundreds of shooting stars. Only they weren't shooting stars. This was not an occurrence one would wish for. It was not beautiful, it was not a miracle. It was horrifying.

The angels were being expelled from Heaven.

"Dean?" Sam strained to form the familiar word. It had comforted him for so long, calling for his brother and feeling him take his shoulder or arm or whatever was most convenient. He did it now, wrapping one arm around his brother protectively as they watched the scene unfold, jaws slack and eyes wide.

Dean's head was spinning, his thoughts racing but incoherent. It was just noise in his head. He held on to Sam instinctively, needing to shield him from whatever was happening. He always had, and always would. But he didn't know if it would matter right now.

The angels were falling. And he had stopped Sam from closing Hell. This was bad.

One coherent thought formed in his head after that realization: _it's Sam._ He didn't regret preventing Sam from stopping the trials. The sky was falling and the demons still walked the Earth, but his little brother would have died if he completed those trials. From the day their mother was murdered, his purpose in life was protecting his brother. Their dad had bred that instinct, strengthened it in him and manipulated it into something more powerful than his own will to live. Protecting Sam wasn't just his job, it was all he knew, was all his father had ever told him he was good for. And when it came down to essentially eradicating all evil from the world and losing Sam, he chose Sam, because Sam was his world. And he didn't regret it.

_How the Hell are we ever gonna fix this,_ he thought. They had done the impossible countless times, derailed the Apocalypse, gone against God's plan, walked away from Fate herself, and lived to tell the tale of facing God's most horrid creations. But as the angels continued to fall, Dean didn't even know where to begin in fixing Heaven. Despite knowing that Heaven was a mess, he never imagined it was something humans could ever be capable of fixing. Now, it appeared, they were its only hope. He didn't even know where to begin.

More desperately than ever, he prayed for Cas to appear out of nowhere. He needed to know if Cas was okay. Maybe whatever caused the angels to fall hadn't reached him. He knew the notion was stupid and naïve, but he hoped anyway.

"Dean!" he heard a familiar voice call. He turned to look. Cas slowed to a stop in front of them, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath. He had been running. Cas had never needed to run to meet them before. And even when he did, he never tired, never seemed to notice his own breathing. Oh, no.

"Cas?" He took a step towards him, his arms leaving his brother to hold out for the exhausted angel, ready to catch or steady him if needed. "Cas, man, what the Hell is going on?"

"Metatron," he panted, "he lied to me. It was a spell – to extinguish – all angels from Heaven." He straightened up, but his breathing did not even out. Despair shook his voice. "It's my fault."

"You didn't know," Dean reassured him, "we all trusted Metatron. We'll find a way to fix this, man, you know we always do. And we'll deep-fry that son of a bitch's wings extra crispy when we're done."

Castiel's breaths were deep and ragged as his eyes scanned the sky. Angels, innocent and pure servants of Heaven, fell to Earth all around them. They were losing their home, and it was all his fault. Again. Yet again he had believed someone's lies and allowed himself to be manipulated into doing something awful and damaging when his own intentions were pure. He wanted to die. He deserved to die. Maybe this time God wouldn't resurrect him. Maybe this would be the final straw in God's forgiveness of him.

Dean saw as Cas's face contorted further as he watched the sky. Fear, sorrow, despair, agony, guilt, self-loathing, they all took their toll on his state. "Cas?" He called again, trying to get through to him.

Castiel's legs gave out. Dean caught him awkwardly and fought against gravity to hold him up. Castiel did not attempt to stand, willing to let this defeat crush him. Unyielding, Dean yanked him closer and pulled him into an embrace, leaning the broken angel's weight against his own to keep him upright. His arms constricted around his friend, his fingers clenched fistfuls of the dirty coat. The muscles beneath the layers of clothing tensed and strained as the angel came to grips with his brothers' fate.

Castiel fought against the tears. He felt them burning against his eyelids, felt the sobs catching in this throat, and tried to beat them down. One tear slipped silently out from behind the dampened lashes of his left eye, then another, and another. They descended in kind with the angels falling all around them, composure shattering with each impact he heard, each vibration he felt beneath his feet. Sobs shook his body as Dean held him securely. Eventually he wrapped his arms around his human friend, perhaps the only family he had left. He did not deserve him. But at the moment he was thankful Dean was still there. He was almost convulsing now, and close to hysterics. His lungs burned worse than when he had been running.

"Breathe, man," Dean reminded him. He inhaled sharply. His shaking became less violent and his lungs felt a little better. Apparently breathing was necessary when crying. He had so much to learn about emotion now that his vessel was no longer a vessel. It was his body. His human body. Before there was a wall of sorts keeping his mind separate from the human's, but now they were meshed as one. Any emotional responses, such as this one, would be his own, and therefore fighting them would be near impossible.

"It's gonna be fine, Cas," Dean reassured him, his promise empty despite his skill for lying.

"How?" he managed to choke out in between sobs.

"I don't know," Dean admitted, "but we'll find a way to save the angels."

Cas just buried his face in Dean's neck, relieved at the comfort when he needed it the most. He didn't deserve it, after all he'd done, but he was thankful Dean could put that aside for just a moment and let him grieve. Because for all they knew, he could be mourning them, too.


End file.
